


hey, honey mine (i was there all the time)

by servetas



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Bonding, Coming Out, Episode: s02e08 Parenthood, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Making Up, Teenagers, fun times, idk......mickey doesn't go to juvie, it's set in season 2!!!! i guessed mick's 17 and ian's 16 bc the shameless writers ain't consistent, just a little bit :), mickey waxes poetic to iggy abt ian......accidentally comes out......., this is set after s02e08 to be clear. like closeby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:08:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24027904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/servetas/pseuds/servetas
Summary: “You ever seen somebody with green eyes before?” he continues. It's probably the dumbest fucking question he's ever asked, but that's the thing with Ian – he gets him all giddy, stupid with happiness. “Like, really looked at 'em? Shit's like magic,” he shakes his head, laughing around his fag. “Would ask me to fuck face to face and I'd try to go fuckin' rough – swear to God, as much as I could at least – and then I'd catch them eyes and I'd go… Yeah. That's fuckin' it for me today. Shit's crazy.”or, after a brief talk with iggy, mickey realizes that having something more maybe isn't all that bad after all
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Iggy Milkovich & Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 20
Kudos: 419





	hey, honey mine (i was there all the time)

Mickey's in his room, half-naked and sitting up in his bed, heavy metal blaring through the speakers – and, not for the first time, he thinks about all the times in which he has royally fucked up in his life.

He’s only _seventeen,_ for Christ’s sake. He should be able to count all the times in just one hand; instead, Mickey uses both and then some – he thinks about all the times he has never stood up for his sister when their dad has been slapping her around, he thinks about the time he laughed along as Terry boasted about having sex with somebody barely legal he met at a bar, thinks about the first time he had fucked Gallagher, and the subsequent times after that. Thinks about how he let it become more than he could handle.

Mickey’s not daft. Contrary to popular belief, Mickey knows his shit; he knows he could never realistically be happy, and he knows this thing with him and Gallagher can never go beyond casual fucking. He had let it slide when the casual fucking had turned into casual hanging out, and even casual _talking_ when they couldn’t avoid the influx of customers and were forced to work for once. He had just kept dodging Gallagher’s handful of attempts at kissing him, instead of just cutting it short right then and there – in his myriads of fuck-ups, Mickey absentmindedly includes thinking about what it would be like to kiss Gallagher as being a major one, a normal kiss that isn’t a prelude to anything else. He thinks about it now, thinks about pulling Gallagher in softly by the back of his neck, thinks about Gallagher’s hands on his waist for a purpose other than bending him over– He would be lying if he said he doesn’t think about it on the regular, when he spaces out while he and Iggy smoke a blunt in this very room – spaces out and thinks about Gallagher’s eyes, Gallagher’s jaw, Gallagher’s mouth and smile that’s only reserved for him.

And the most major of Mickey’s fuck-ups? Perhaps, that would be breaking the whole thing off, although that was disguised as one of his best ideas at the time.

It’s only natural. Mickey is a coward, and when an obstacle presented itself in the form of Gallagher’s piece of shit dad walking in on them in the fucking freezer of all places – _very_ uncomfortable place to fuck, he would definitely _not_ recommend – he had flipped his shit, going on a rampage about murder and violence and apathy. Because that’s all he knows, isn’t it? That’s all Mickey _is_ – and he had ruined his only chance at teaching himself something better, _making_ himself something better, letting Gallagher teach him things he was never allowed to be taught. 

Maybe not love. But something stronger.

Mickey hadn’t meant any of it. He had just kept talking; he hadn’t been able to control what came out of his mouth, had just known it kept coming out. Talks of Gallagher meaning shit to him, talks of what they had – whatever it was – having been nothing but a few meaningless fucks, talks of him not caring about anything other than getting his dick a little bit wet. Bullshit, if Mickey may. Things he has been brainwashed to believe, and things he doesn’t want to define him. Gallagher had looked at him like he had just had his heart ripped out of his chest, and Mickey had felt like he had just soiled his hands with blood – and that was that. Mickey was on his merry way, empty promises of eradicating Gallagher’s dad’s existence on his lips.

He hadn’t meant any of it. Not a word. He sits here, revisiting every single word from that day – three days ago, Mickey has counted by the minutes on his ancient alarm – and he desperately tries to relate to the smallest thing that had come out of his mouth, but he can’t. Mickey misses Gallagher. Mickey misses Ian, and how he made him feel.

Mickey had felt important when he had been with Ian. And he uses the term _been with_ loosely – being _around_ Ian was merely enough, even though he hadn’t let himself seize everything it could entail. Even so, Ian had been willing to give it all to him, show him what he had been missing out on for so long, and Mickey could appreciate that. He found solace in somebody valuing him – or he guesses Ian valued him, and he doesn’t think he’s that far off – and he liked having somebody who saw something of him. Nobody has seen something of him before. When Mickey had been around Ian, he had been smart, and he had been mouthy, and he had been… a beautiful person. (Ask him about that last one and he will kill you with his bare, muddy hands).

It’s just that… Whenever Mickey spoke, Ian had been hanging off of his every word like it had been truly worthwhile. It felt nice for a change.

And it hadn’t been a one-way street. Whenever Ian barely looked his way, Mickey found himself straightening up, or looking back before he could help it, before he could think twice. That’s not something you do when you’re just casually fucking somebody, and Mickey’s smart enough to know that. He and Gallagher would go out for a late night smoke under the L, the moonlight shining off both of their pale skins, Mickey letting Ian ramble on about his ROTC and army bullshit even though he could care less about the fucking topic. Sometimes, he and Ian would get into arguments about the military; Mickey against, Ian in favor, until one of them eventually couldn’t take the tension of it anymore and dropped to their knees, effectively shutting the other up until their next argument.

It had been good. _Too_ good for Mickey, and that’s why he had to ruin it.

Somebody’s pounding on the door. The cigarette in Mickey’s hand is starting to stain his boxers with the ashes, and the rhythmic fists on wood remind him to flick it over the ashtray. “Fuck off!” he shouts at whoever it is, heavy metal just barely drowning him out.

“I gotta take a dump, shithead!” Iggy shouts back, followed by another round of pounding on his door. Mickey blows out the smoke, wrist flicking with his fag. “I _told_ you if you wanna be alone like a little bitch so bad, we can switch rooms!“

“I _said:_ fuck _off!”_ Mickey repeats, bordering on annoyed. Can't a guy sulk and mourn what _could_ have been in fucking peace?

There's silence on the other end. For a moment, Mickey thinks he's won, but then there's the very characteristic sound of Iggy's fat head pounding once against the door, and Mickey grumbles under his breath. _“Mick!”_ he hears, and it's a lot more urgent this time around. _“Please!_ I'm gonna take a shit in front of your fucking door!”

Mickey turns his head away from the door, naively thinking that focusing on the shitty guitar blaring through his even shittier speakers would do the trick and help him forget about Iggy’s insistent and consistent pounding on his door. It works for all about ten seconds, until a headache starts to bloom behind his eyelids and he tuts, rubbing his smoke out on the ashtray before dragging himself over and ripping the door open, giving it the right amount of attitude to show Iggy just how much he doesn’t need his bullshit right now.

Iggy’s rhythmic fist almost socks him in the fucking eye, but then he’s stumbling in with an overly loud: “Jesus _fuck!”_ and making a beeline for the toilet, not bothering to properly shut the door after he practically trips over his feet to make it.

Mickey sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. It’s an attempt to calm himself, relax his nerves – it doesn’t fucking work. What Mickey needs right now is to be alone, think about what a piece of shit he is, maybe call Ian up and ask him to come over for a quick fix. He doesn’t know when he started referring to Gallagher’s cock as a fix, but it’s not too far from accurate, so he just lets himself fall back onto his bed, scrubbing both hands down his face pathetically as a frustrated sheen of tears starts to cover both of his eyes.

Mickey wonders if Ian ever kissed his pedo boss. He wonders if he has the balls to ask him for a kiss himself, just one, just to get the curiosity and loneliness in him over and done with.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, hands covering his face, but next thing he knows Iggy’s flushing and leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom, panting heavily as if he just ran a fucking marathon or some shit. Mickey removes his hands from his face, scrunching his nose at his brother.

“You’re such a fuckin’ prick,” Iggy tells him, and Mickey refrains from nodding. He fucking _knows._ “You get off on people’s suffering, Baby Face?”

“Nah. Just yours, dickbreath,” Mickey replies, throwing his extra pillow right in his assfuck brother’s face. He sometimes uses that pillow to hump when he can’t see Ian, thinking of him pressed against his back, mouthing at his spine. His nose scrunches up at the realization. “Ugh, throw that back over.”

“Smells like shit in here,” Iggy laments, throwing the pillow back at Mickey’s side. Mickey narrows his eyes at him, jerking his arm towards the vague direction of the toilet. “Not _literal_ shit. Smells fuckin’ stale.” He looks around, taking in the disheveled state of his room; fucking _excuse_ him, he hasn’t been able to tidy up what with going through a major fucking heartbreak. Yeah, Mickey said heartbreak. Bite him. “Jesus _Christ,_ you can’t open a fuckin’ window or nothing? And turn that pussy ass screamo shit down.”

“Don’t fuckin’ _want_ to,” Mickey grunts, shoving his arm towards the door. “Now get the fuck out.”

Iggy regards him, his eyes slowly narrowing and a little smirk etching his way onto his face. He nods, crossing his arms over his chest obnoxiously – Mickey could fucking punch him. “Alright,” he says, and Mickey’s already groaning, “talk to Daddy.”

“What the fuck are you _talking_ about?”

“I doubt you’re on your fuckin’ period so early into the month–” Mickey flips him off, not that Iggy isn’t used to that, “–which means something else has got your panties in a twist. What’s up?”

“Fucking hell, _nothing’s_ up!”

Iggy raises his eyebrow. “Oh, for real? You were with a chick and couldn’t get it up? Don’t worry about it, man,” he shrugs, inviting himself to sit on the edge of Mickey’s bed. “Happens to the best of us. Don’t know if it’s normal for it to happen this early on, but–”

“Jesus _fuck,_ Iggy, if you don’t get the fuck out right _now,_ I swear to–”

“Then tell me what the fuck it is!” Iggy laughs, smacking Mickey’s bare calf. “You want me to coax it out of you? Bring over some fuckin’ chocolate like they do with chicks in movies?”

Despite himself, Mickey laughs with his mouth around another smoke, lighting it up with his lighter. “Would be nice…” he mumbles, blowing the smoke out through his nostrils, rubbing over an eyelid with the back of his thumb.

Iggy stares at him.

“Jesus fucking Christ, I’m just…” he thinks, shaking his head in exasperation. “I’m just going through some stuff, alright? No need to make a big fuckin’ deal out of it.”

“Hm,“ Iggy hums, sucking on his teeth pensively. “Not a big fuckin’ deal, he says. Must be a big fuckin’ deal if she’s got you sulking like some bitch for three days straight.”

Mickey blinks, shakes his head again, flicks the fag over his ashtray. “Fuck off,” he says, but there’s not any real heat behind the words.

“Do I know her?” Iggy grins, all suggestive and shit. Mickey’s stomach churns. “Must be a _fantastic_ fuckin’ lay if she’s got you crying over it.”

“Ain’t crying,” Mickey kicks him on the side, but he doesn’t deny the rest.

“Talk to me,” Iggy repeats. “Something happen? Caught her giving it to somebody else?”

 _“No!_ It’s not– It’s–” he groans, trying to gather his thoughts. He huffs, opting to rub a hand over his forehead. “It’s complicated.”

“Sure, it is,” Iggy sucks in his cheek. “You either keep on plowing her or you go out and find a new piece of ass for yourself. Sophie’s fuckin’ choice, huh?”

Mickey kicks at him again, but it’s for an entirely different reason. Whether Iggy knows or not, reducing what he and Ian had down to simple _plowing_ seems almost… blasphemous. It makes him sick to his stomach, and the fact that he _is_ sick to his stomach makes him even _more_ sick to his stomach, and so fucking on until he’s proper nauseous. “You’re so _shallow,_ Igs.”

 _“Woah,_ that’s a big word!” Iggy grins, and Mickey tips his head back to hide his smile. “She a bookworm or what? Teach you more than body talk?”

“Shallow ain’t even a big fuckin’ word– You just dropped out in the sixth grade,” Mickey scoffs, passing his cigarette when Iggy’s hand reaches out for it.

“Seventh,” Iggy says, sticking it into his mouth. “And it’s certainly fuckin’ bigger than the ones _you_ use. She tutor you or some shit?”

Mickey’s forehead creases. Iggy’s not wrong, per se; Mickey’s vocabulary isn’t exactly on the rich side, and he tends to dumb it down most of the time, for his and his family’s sake, but that’s one thing that he loved about being around Ian. Mickey could say anything – dumbed down or not – and Ian would still nod and look at him as if Mickey was the single most intelligent person he’d ever had the pleasure of meeting. He became sort of spoiled from it; now, with every other interaction, Mickey feels degraded, he feels stupid all over again.

“Could fuckin’ say that,” he grumbles. “If you’re not gonna take any of this shit seriously, do us both a favor and let me sulk in peace.”

Iggy looks a bit more serious now, at least, eyes softening as he regards his little brother. “You like this girl?” he says, and there’s that fucking pang in Mickey’s chest.

He ignores it. He opts to lower the volume in his speakers, not even able to enjoy the way it makes Iggy’s face scrunch up anymore. “I–” he begins, but he finds himself at a loss for words, as he often is when he merely thinks about the way Ian makes him feel. “It was– It _used_ to be just plowing, you know? It did,” he begins, and Iggy frowns in concentration. “And I _liked_ it. I mean– _Obviously_ I liked it–”

“Sure _hope_ you did, bro.”

“But it…” he sighs, rubbing over his eyelid with another knuckle, until he sees stars dancing in the dark. “It became something… It’s something…” He lets out a frustrated yell, burying his face in his hands. “Whatever. Probably don’t need me and my pussy talk.”

Iggy is silent. His chin is in his hand, and he’s watching Mickey – like he’s saying something that’s important. Mickey doesn’t know how to feel about it. “You startin’ to catch feelings, little man?” he says, with the tiniest, most obnoxious fucking smile Mickey’s ever seen.

“Fuck you is what I’m startin’ to catch,” he huffs, but he doesn’t deny it.

Iggy hums, proven right. “And, what– She wants it to be just fucking?” He raises his eyebrows. “Where can I find _me_ a chick like that?”

“Can you stop clowning around for a fuckin’ minute? A _minute–”_ he shoves his raised middle finger right into Iggy’s face, rubbing it along his cheek, “–is _all_ I fuckin’ ask.”

“Alright, _Jeez!”_ Iggy shoves it away, passing back his cigarette and sporting a brand new splotchy red fingerprint on his cheekbone. “Fuckin’ finish your sentences then! No room for my imagination.”

Mickey chews on the inside of his cheek. After a beat or two, he lets the smoke blow out of his mouth, sadly seeping through the gap between his lips. “I kind of–” he begins again. “I didn’t _want_ it to be more than that… I wanted it to be just plowing, but it… wasn’t,” he says, gesturing pathetically. “Jesus– Am I making sense?”

“Honestly, man– Kinda feel like I’m talking to Mandy,” Iggy says, earning himself a death glare. _“Sorry!_ It’s just that… you don’t usually hear that comin’ from the guy, you know?” He doesn’t mention it when Mickey looks away, plays with the cigarette in his mouth. “You’ve always been a big fuckin’ softie, man.”

“Shut your fuckin’ trap and give me your big brotherly advice you’ve been dyin’ to give me.”

Iggy rubs a tired hand over his eye, staring off into space. “Let me get this straight,” he begins, and Mickey braces himself. “You been fucking this chick… All of a sudden you realize you’re catchin’ feelings… You freak the fuck out and bail on her… Am I right so far?”

Mickey takes a moment to assess it, then shrugs lazily. “Neither here nor there.”

 _“Damn,”_ he says. His whole face scrunches up, once again. “And all _that_ for some fuckin’ pussy?”

“Fucking _hell,_ Igs, it’s not _like_ that! Quit making it out to be something it isn’t!” Mickey snaps, and Iggy's mouth shuts at once. _“God,_ it's– We don't just _fuck,_ alright? Hell, I mean– We _do_ fuck– We fuck _most_ of the time, and it's _good!_ It's damn fuckin' good, actually, it's like– It's better than–”

“Mick.”

“–but we also fuckin' hang out and talk about shit like… Well, _important_ shit, you know? Jesus Christ, we went all in about the fuckin' _military_ the other day, for fuck's sake!” Mickey's arms are gesturing wildly now, eyes bordering on popping out of their sockets, cigarette hanging off of his fingers loosely. He feels crazy – but it feels so damn good to finally let it out. “You don't _do_ that with people you're just plowing! _Do you?”_

Iggy's simply staring at him.

“I mean– _Fuck!”_ he pushes a hand through his hair. “When we're together, it's like–” he stops, tries to mull it over – but he can't _think._ “I go fuckin' stupid! I can't fuckin' think at _all_ and I had to go and fuckin' _ruin_ it because all Terry does is raise fuckin'–” he kicks Iggy in the ass as if for emphasis, _“–cowards!”_

He pauses to take a breather, not knowing whether he should be happy or annoyed that Iggy's merely watching him have a fucking breakdown, silent as all fuck.

“Remember that mutt that used to circle our house when we were kids? The one Mom used to feed all the time?”

Iggy smiles. “Red fur?”

Mickey blows more smoke out. “Remember how much I used to fuckin' love it?” Iggy doesn't speak. “It was the red fuckin' hair, man. Turns out I'm a _sucker_ for it,” he laughs bitterly. “Would be lying under the L and I'd turn my head and there it fuckin' was, all bright and soft and smooth and shit, and I'd do whatever I was fuckin' asked to like some bitch because of it. Fuckin' gingers, man.”

“She's got red hair?”

“The reddest,” Mickey shakes his head. “With the freckles and the pale skin and the green eyes and shit,” he shrugs, even as Iggy shudders. He's pushing his fucking luck. How many redheads even _are_ there in the fucking South Side of Chicago that haven't either been chased out or bullied to death? “Fuckin' _does_ it for me. I like 'em fuckin' alien-looking and shit.” He pauses, then repeats, quieter: “Does it for me.”

The ash tickles his thigh, so he flicks it over the floor, desperate to fill the silence with more odes about Ian – never spoken aloud before, but practiced enough in his head that they come out with ease.

“You ever seen somebody with green eyes before?” he continues. It's probably the dumbest fucking question he's ever asked, but that's the thing with Ian – he gets him all giddy, stupid with happiness. “Like, _really_ looked at 'em? Shit's like magic,” he shakes his head, laughing around his fag. “Would ask me to fuck face to face and I'd try to go fuckin' rough – swear to God, as much as I _could_ at least – and then I'd catch them eyes and I'd go… _Yeah. That's fuckin' it for me today._ Shit's crazy.” More smoke out of his nostrils, more fond chuckles out of his mouth. “It's like… He'd fuckin' _look_ at me and my brain would short-circuit… You ever had that happen to you? Somebody looks at you and you forget how to fuckin' speak?”

When Mickey looks up, Iggy's still staring at him – but there's something different in his eyes.

Shit.

 _He._ It had slipped. Mickey's honestly kind of shocked he had gone this long into his rant without it slipping out, but it did, and that's what he gets for pushing and stretching his fucking luck as if he's ever _been_ lucky in the first place. He's a fucking jinx, is what he is. And now he's about to be a _dead_ fucking jinx on top of it.

Iggy's eyes don't waver for a second. “No,” he says. “Never had that happen to me.”

Mickey just now realizes how dry his mouth is. Lowering his gaze, he lifts a shaky hand up to mouth at his cigarette, just barely not dropping it and burning his skin off.

Iggy sniffs. “So. This is what you're doin' now?” When Mickey looks up at him, Iggy shakes his head. “You're hiding? Like a coward?”

Mickey stares.

 _“What?”_ Iggy presses. “You ever say half of what you just said to me? You saving it? And for what? For when the military's asking for recruits?”

Mickey's jaw sets, and his throat's constricted. “It's– It's complicated.”

“Like hell it is!” Iggy shoves his leg away, snatching the smoke out of his hand. “For somebody who has figured out all Terry does is raise cowards, you sure don't do much to deviate from that.”

The side of Mickey's mouth quirks up. “Now, _that's_ a big fuckin' word.”

They stare at each other, smiles slowly forming on both of their faces. Iggy puffs on the cig, eyes incredulous. “Seriously,” he says, eyes nothing short of penetrating – or maybe Mickey's just not used to it. “Sulking around here and avoiding all contact will do fuck all. Can't believe I even have to _tell_ you that.”

Mickey observes his stained sheets. “Then what the hell should I do?”

“Well, get the fuck _up,_ for one!” he shoves Mickey's leg away, prompting a huff out of him. “Fuckin' go over there and say _half_ of what you said to me.” He smiles, nose scrunching. “But _just_ half. Kinda creepy otherwise.”

Mickey laughs, pausing to look at his brother, watch as his eyes regard him with love and worry and humor. “You're an insufferable prick, you know that?”

Iggy smiles knowingly. Somehow, they both understand what it really means; _hey, you're actually the best damn brother I could ever fucking ask for, even though you smell like a goddamn sewer rat most of the time._

“Yeah,” Iggy mumbles, watches as Mickey springs out of bed and jumps on one foot as he tries to pull his discarded pants on, as hastily as he can. “Hey.”

Mickey pauses from pulling on a T-shirt, looking at Iggy expectantly – he looks reluctant, uncertain.

“Red hair and freckles, huh?” he says, and something in Mickey's stomach flutters. For the first time in a while, it's good.

“Yeah,” he says, albeit reluctantly. Iggy loves him. He _knows_ Iggy loves him. Still, he can't help but feel a little nervous as his brother watches him, biting his cheek as if deep in thought.

“Huh,” he mumbles. He lowers his chin, giving Mickey a look that he knows means business. “He good to you?”

 _God,_ what a fucking question. Mickey’s mouth parts the slightest when he hears it, but Iggy doesn’t back down, staring expectantly for an answer. The absurdity of using _he_ in this situation aside – although Mickey vaguely thinks he could get used to it – the question causes more butterflies to erupt in his stomach, attached to thoughts of Ian looking at him like he hung the moon, Ian propping his chin on his hand and laughing wholeheartedly at Mickey’s lamest fucking jokes, Ian running his hand through Mickey’s hair the only time they ever fucked face to face, pushing black strands out of his forehead and staring at his soul through his eyes, so deep that something inside of Mickey melted that day, and is yet to solidify itself again.

“Yeah,” Mickey says, short and sweet, to the point – he thinks his smile implies the rest of it. “Yeah. He’s good to me.”

Iggy’s mouth twists, and he stands up, anchoring both hands on Mickey’s shoulders. “That’s all I need to know,” he tells him, low like the secret it is, and he slaps a soft hand against Mickey’s stubbly cheek. “You sure you makin’ the right choice, Baby Face?”

Mickey smiles. “No.”

“Hm. Well,” Iggy shrugs, ruffling his hair around as he shoves him towards the door, “good fuckin’ luck to you, anyhow.”

Mickey flips him off over his shoulder, barely taking a moment to shove his feet into his boots.

“And get me somethin’ while you’re at it– Them BBQ flavored Pringles!”

Instead of replying, Mickey shoves the door to his bedroom shut behind him, his heart stuttering at the sight of Terry, passed out on the couch, a half-empty beer bottle loosely clutched in his grasp. Mickey doesn’t waste more than a second observing him; he pulls on a jacket and makes it out the door in one piece, practically fucking booking it down the street towards the Kash and Grab.

The wind is howling in his ears, his fucking laces are untied, but Mickey still runs – he has embraced the role of the bitch at this point, has somehow figured out the gist of what he wants. He wants to make it right with Gallagher as soon as possible.

He barely checks for cars before he crosses the street, flipping the bird at a driver who screams at him out of his car window after he almost runs him over. Mickey stumbles into the door, the bell chiming and accompanying his panting breath.

Ian’s in front of the freezer, his head snapping up at the intrusion. At the sight of Mickey, he almost drops the soda pops he’s holding – and _God,_ this shouldn’t seem _nearly_ as endearing to Mickey as it does. He tries to calm down, tries to act all casual and keep his cool as he shuts the door behind him, subtly locking it – he thanks his lucky stars that the place is once again empty. 

“Mickey,” Ian breathes, the case with the soda pops abandoned on the ground.

 _No shit,_ Mickey wants to say, but instead he does his best to remain casual, with a cold exterior. “Got any BBQ flavored Pringles?” he says, watching as Ian’s eyebrows slope together. “Iggy’s got period cravings, I think.”

Ian doesn’t reply for a while. They sit there, staring at one another, until Ian’s face adopts the same cold expression. “Where they’ve always been,” he says, his tone revealing something that hurts Mickey’s chest.

Mickey hums – as if he could care less about some BBQ flavored fucking Pringles. He starts to walk, slowly, up until he’s approaching Ian, who looks nonplussed if anything else.

“I meant by the cash register,” he murmurs, but his breath fails him now that Mickey’s this close, his body heat seeping through Ian’s skin like it has missed it.

“Of course you fucking did,” Mickey says, no malice behind his words. Ian’s eyebrows are still furrowed. “Employee of the fucking month and all, huh?”

“Why are you here?” Ian finally says, like Mickey’s been expecting him to. “To rub it in my face? Wanna tell me more about how I’m just a fuckin’ _warm mouth_ to you?” he exclaims, furious. “Or do you want fuckin’ pointers as to where Frank’s hiding this week? ‘Cause I’m gonna save you the trouble and tell you that I don’t fuckin’ know. Alright?”

Mickey’s looking at the freezer. His bottom lip’s between his teeth, sucking and gnawing, and _here_ come the fucking waterworks – he tries to conceal it, but Ian knows better. His expression softens as he sees the slightest bit of red circling Mickey’s eyes, the thin sheen of wetness, and he instinctively reaches out for him, hand barely touching his outer thigh.

“Hey,” he says, softly, like any noise louder than a whisper is going to break Mickey. Mickey feels fragile enough for it to be true. “Hey, Mickey…”

Mickey shakes his head, thumb rubbing under his eye to monitor the wetness. “Fuck,” he laughs wetly, rubbing both heels of his palms into his eyes. “Been acting like a bitch all day.”

Ian doesn’t say anything, but he removes his hand from Mickey’s pants.

It’s Mickey’s turn again. Or so he understands. “How’s the store been without me?” he purses his mouth, crossing both arms over his chest in an attempt to hide _something._ Hide _himself._

Ian stares at him like he can’t even believe him. “Same old,” he says. “Kids ain’t scared to walk in anymore, actually. Business is better than ever.”

“Mhm. Can fuckin’ see that,” Mickey smiles, a fake little thing.

Ian nods. No actual tears have rolled out of Mickey’s eyes just yet, but his fucking eyeballs are burning and stinging, and he thinks he’d be better off fucking bawling than this shit. It’s neither here nor there, and he’s tired of it.

He’s so tired, in fact, that his brain to mouth filter checks out altogether, and he finds himself glancing up at Ian through wet eyelashes. “I miss you,” he says, somewhat shakily, and Ian simply stares. “I miss… _this,”_ he gestures between them.

Ian raises an eyebrow. “The fucking?”

Mickey’s arms tighten their hold over his chest, self-conscious.

Ian repeats himself. “The _fucking,_ Mickey?”

“I don’t know. Was that all it was?”

Ian laughs, bitter and false. “Apparently,” he grumbles, restocking another soda pop in the freezer.

Mickey watches him work, watches his set jaw and his furrowed eyebrows. The sole of his boot rubs at the ground, his eyes flick all over the room.

“I miss you, Freckles,” he repeats, mouth quirking up on one side as Ian stares at the nickname. “I miss… you staring when you think I’m not looking. And runnin’ your fingers down my arm when I’m all sex-loose and can’t yell at you over it. And…” He raises an eyebrow: “You trying to kiss me all the time because you can’t take a fuckin’ hint.”

Ian’s beet red. There’s no expression evident on his face, and it makes Mickey so fucking nervous – his arms are getting gooseflesh, crossed over his chest, and he’s back at gnawing at his bottom lip like it’s gonna make Ian talk.

“Yeah…” Mickey mumbles, looking at the ground again. “This… This wasn’t a good idea,” he says, voice borderline quivering, and it sounds like it’s a question. Ian still doesn’t talk, so Mickey nods at his shoes, shrugging. “Cool. Guess I’ll be grabbing those Pringles and beating it, Red.”

He waits for an answer. When it doesn’t come, Mickey embraces the fresh sting and sheen of tears, still not rolling down, making him want to punch himself in the eye just to have another reason to cry about. Just as he’s turning around, Iggy’s cravings be fucking damned, Ian’s hand wraps around his wrist.

Mickey’s head snaps towards him involuntarily. Ian’s still red, for reasons unknown, and his hand is spasming around Mickey’s wrist – probably battling whether he should let go or hold tighter, pull him in or push him away.

Mickey wants to help him; he walks forward and wraps his arms around Ian’s neck, feeling him waste no time after a stunned beat and wrapping his own arms around Mickey’s waist, holding him tight, as if this is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Mickey doesn’t want it to be. He buries his nose in Ian’s neck, breathing in the scent of musk and detergent, his fingers tangling up in the hair on the back of Ian’s head. Mickey closes his eyes tightly, lets all of his senses be overcome with _Ian,_ allows Ian to put his mouth right against the shell of Mickey’s ear.

“Missed you, too…” he says. _Past tense,_ because Mickey’s here _now,_ and he doesn’t want to go anywhere else. “Fuckin’ asshole. Words _hurt,_ you know.”

Mickey pulls at the hair tangled between his fingers gently, hearing a low laugh right next to his ear. Ian pulls back, and the green of his eyes that Mickey had been so eloquently waxing poetic to Iggy about mere minutes before leaves him breathless again, unable to fucking speak and take Iggy’s advice. _Say half of what you said to me._

“You’re–" Mickey begins, and Ian waits, the slope of his eyebrows casting shadows around his eyes. “I mean–" Mickey tries, Ian’s red mouth tugging upwards in the slightest. “You…”

Ian’s tongue wets his bottom lip. _“Me?”_

He looks like he wants to kiss him. Mickey wants him to.

Figuring words are his greatest enemy at the moment, Mickey takes a deep breath and leans up, seeing Ian’s eyes widen with it. Ian stays deathly still, like the slightest of movements will be enough to scare Mickey away – as if Mickey’s not fucking _doing_ this. He’s gone _this_ far; he’s not about to give up _now._

Mickey takes Ian’s bottom lip into his mouth, and his throat constricts. He kisses it softly, his eyes fluttering open to see Ian’s softly closed, and he shuts them again as he pulls back and grins, only to lean back in again.

Ian barely waits until their mouths touch. He does his part, leans forward before Mickey can think about doing it again, and he swallows the little laugh Mickey lets out into the kiss, his nose softly digging into Mickey’s cheek as he kisses the breath out of him; Mickey sits there, arms thrown around Ian’s neck, Ian’s own arms resting on his hips.

Ian pulls back all of a sudden. “Mick,” he pants, “I’m kissin’ you.”

Mickey stares. “Yeah...”

Ian leans back in without so much as a word, and this time around, the kiss is more desperate, more experienced. Ian licks into his mouth, trying to memorize every curve and spot he’s missed out on all this time, fingers sneaking under Mickey’s T-shirt and causing a shiver to run down his spine. For once, Mickey allows himself to enjoy it, allows himself to be kissed like he never has before.

“I didn’t mean it,” Mickey pants during a small break, one that Ian barely lets him have in the first place. He says it against Ian’s mouth, while Ian’s trying to open up his lips with his own, desperate and wet.

“Huh?”

“What I said,” Mickey tries to pull his head back the tiniest bit, makes eye contact with Ian through his hooded lids. “What I said about you that day.” He shakes his head. “Didn’t mean it.”

Ian grins, toothy and full of mirth. “What? My mouth ain’t warm?”

Mickey laughs, his thumb rubbing against the bottom lip of said mouth softly. Ian’s expression sobers up. “Why don’t you show me?”

Ian hums, mouth back on Mickey’s, but it’s chaste and soft and there’s no tongue involved, like he’s trying to savor Mickey’s taste with his hand fiddling with the button on Mickey’s pants, in no hurry at all.

 _“Fuck,_ Ian,” Mickey claws at Ian’s back as his mouth moves onto the pulse point on his neck, grinning up at the ceiling. “Fuck– Think I came out to Iggy today.”

Ian pauses over the hickey he’s got forming on Mickey’s skin, lifting his eyes to regard him. “You _think_ you came out?” he asks, humorous. “You ain’t sure?”

Mickey bites his lip through a smile. “Nah. I’m sure.”

Ian’s whole face lights up, more than ecstatic to know that somebody other than him knows about Mickey, and that Mickey’s very much still in one piece. Mickey’s ecstatic, too, and he can tell by the way that dumb smile won’t wipe off his mouth even as he’s being kissed again, more breath and teeth than anything else.

“Better think twice about breakin’ my heart now that my brother knows about you,” Mickey mumbles against Ian’s mouth, relishing in the gush of air that Ian laughs into his cheek.

“Wasn’t planning to,” he whispers, and Mickey’s being kissed; again, and again, and again.


End file.
